Poetry, for me, is about using words rhythmic nature to create a mind set. It is about playing with structure to breakthrough language's limits. Like life, you got to use reality's tools to imagine anything beyond it.
Here are some of my poems.

Monday, March 23, 2009

The Mountain Top and the Soccer Field

Dear Mashgiach you said it a million times,and had us say it at least one hundred times after you.But I only said it once.Just once I used it to make a point,maybe that was the problem.

Right there, on the top of that mountainyou told us, in a tune, that all is vanity.

At the bottom of the mountain was a soccer field;We used to hear the roars of the crowd while we tried to focuson the long text.Its vanity,a bunch of people running after a ball.It's vanity,screaming because you got someone to fall and trip.It’s vanity.

But you know, I once went down the mountain;I needed a cup of coffee, to keep me awake for a night full of studying.I passed the soccer fieldwhen the fans were emptying out the stadium.Someone was carrying a cup and others were gathering around him,applauding.

Did you know there is a score board at the stadium?they write the scores there of every team.They change the score throughout the game,then someone wins.

Did you know that someone wins in the end?they get a big cupand a chance to compete againwith a better team.

But you know, Mashgiach, most people do itfor just an hour or so every week.The rest of the timethey live their lives through comparison to the game.For only an hour or so a week they have a controlled worldamidst the chaos they leave behind.And find power and strengthby calling someone’s name.

They roar for an hour or so.then they face their quiet homes.They cheer for an hour or so,until they get back to their silent lamentsthat are bigger than the whole stadium,bigger than the whole game.

And when someone from the crowdsucceeds during the week.She remembers the game She scored,even when her success is smallerthan the shouts of the fans she heard,for an hour or so last week.

The game last for an hour or so a week,than the fabric of the crowdfalls back in to single threadslost in a hay tallerthan the grass of a soccer field.

But, back on the mountain,the roars of texts lasts all week.We never leave the stadium.Nobody scores, nobody falls,nobody gets called by name.

Nothing gets referenced to nothing,they shaved the grass of the whole field.You live and die runningto kick a ball you can't see,and to live a metaphor you can't construe.

On top of the mountain the game lasts a whole week,and the fabric of the crowd is never pulled to thread.You don't see a guy leaving with his cup;for there is no cup,there is no leaving,truth is there isn't even a guy.There is just a crowd cheering,cheers that can only come from a crowdwho never tried a lament.Cheers that have no chaosto contrast to.

I see the soccer fieldIt is vanity,for an hour or so every week.I see the mountain topIt is vanity,for ever and ever.